Minutes ticked by as he removed the alternator belt; and although it was too long for the water pump, he opted to keep it for a spare.
Will sat down on the asphalt and reclined onto his back, worming himself beneath the Chevy. The air conditioner bolts were rusty, and as he applied pressure to the breaker bar, the first one snapped. Damn it, he thought before realizing it did not require repair. With the tension released, the air conditioning and power steering belt slipped off, still not the correct length, but another valuable part. Will wedged a screwdriver beneath the water pump belt and pried it free.
Despite the sixty-five degree morning, sweat dribbled along his temple as he lugged the tools and belts back to his truck; and the job was only half complete. Mouth parched, he leaned in the driver’s side window. “Where’s my water bottle?”
Hard at work filing her fingernails, Heather did not bother to look up. “I used it to brush my teeth.”
“Hand me another one from the cooler?” he asked.
“They’re all gone. You’ll have to get more out of the back.”
Since the bottled water had been loaded into the truck bed first, it was buried beneath a mountain of junk. For a fraction of a second, he imagined himself racking the shotgun and telling his wife to get the hell out and walk. Then he trudged toward the tailgate.
27
AS THE YOUNGEST MEMBER of the special forces of jihad, Omar Roshan Al-Kahtani had always lagged behind his cousins, academically, athletically, and spiritually.
For two days, he had seethed with unspoken jealousy, listening to rumors of their victories. Mohammad Rizwan Al-Ghamdi had set a series of fires aboard the S.S. Weikert that killed more than half the crew, most while they slumbered. The extensively damaged submarine was being towed into dry dock, out of commission for months, possibly years given the nationwide loss of electric.
Xavier Rizwan Al-Ghamdi had attacked Langden Air Force Base, destroying the jet fuel depot and six F-16 Fighting Falcons before becoming a martyr. But today—Allah willing—Omar would eclipse them both.
As a Chief Warrant Officer aboard the U.S.S. Axelson, a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, he was responsible for the maintenance of the ship’s reverse-osmosis desalination system. The complex, computerized machinery generated freshwater for five thousand Sailors, a choke point of vulnerability protected by high-tech sensors and redundant safety features.
Toting a twelve-pack of cola, Omar entered the desalination room, and his footfalls dissolved into the noise of the pumps. Staff was minimal at this hour, their focus welded to computer monitors encased in metal cabinets, and he advanced to his target undetected.
He liberated a can from its packaging, pulled the metal tab, and placed it atop a whirring pump that drew thousands of gallons of seawater into the desalination system every hour. Reaching into his pocket, Omar removed a silvery, ribbonlike strip of magnesium and jammed it inside the can like a straw. He repeated the process until all the cans were in position then plucked a lighter from his front pocket.
The ultimate energy drink, he thought as he lit the magnesium fuses. They burned blindingly white, casting bits of fire like sparklers, and ignited the contents of each can—two parts iron oxide, one part aluminum powder, a dusty mixture known as thermite. Pillars of gray smoke rose like miniature volcanoes; and as each exothermic chemical reaction reached 4,000 degrees, it sired balls of molten iron that melted straight through the metal pumps.
Omar had transformed the mighty U.S.S. Axelson into a floating desert.
28
BICEPS BURNING, ABBY hoisted another shovel of muck from the lake bottom and lugged it across the yard. For the past hour, she and her parents had been working to expand the garden. Because Sugar Lake soil was orange sand, devoid of nutrients and virtually incapable of sustaining anything beyond pine trees, crabgrass, and weeds, Abby’s father had purchased truckloads of rich black soil for the garden. The plan was to dilute that soil with layers of cardboard, newspaper, and the muck from the lake bottom, then redistribute it over a wider area—a tedious and boring task until Bradley arrived.
His paint-spattered T-shirt stretched taut against his broad shoulders like multicolored skin, defining his muscular chest. Camouflage cargo shorts hung to his knees, and Abby watched him kick off his shoes and trek knee-deep into the water. He scowled as he rammed the shovel into the lake bottom, lifted a dripping mound of mud, and headed for the garden.
“You look happy today,” Abby said sarcastically as she trailed behind him. “Did the Marine Corps issue you a smile suppressor? Or are you missing your girlfriend?”
A tight-lipped smirk strained the corners of Bradley’s mouth, followed by a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
Abby had no patience for inconclusive responses. “Well, do you? Have a girlfriend, I mean?”
“Ask me in a couple years.”
“That’s an evasive no.” Abby watched another suffocated smile play over his face, then she ventured deeper into the waist-high weeds that ringed the lake. She had already extracted the easily accessible mud; and unlike Bradley, she didn’t want to walk into the water. Plunging her shovel between tufts of saw grass, Abby heard an awful noise, a deep sustained hiss that slithered through her.
An eight-foot alligator, two hundred pounds of belligerence, lunged toward her. She screamed, backtracking, swinging the shovel between herself and the alligator.
An undulating, throaty rumble erupted. Its powerful jaws snapped onto the shovel. Vibrations from its massive bite force radiated through the handle, stinging her hands; then, the animal began to roll, wrenching the shovel from her grasp.
Abby’s pulse thumped, nearly drowning out the panicked screams of her parents; and she took a tentative step backward, fearful that sudden movements might further enrage the reptile.
Bradley had looped around behind the alligator and was creeping toward it, knife in hand, signaling for her to stay calm. She watched him free fall onto the animal, using his body weight to drive the knife into the base of its skull.
Her parents converged, smothering her and thanking everyone from God to Bradley. In Abby’s estimation, there was no one in between.
“Thanks. That was badass.” She hugged him, cheek pressed to his chest, arms clamped around his back.
Bradley stood rigid, arms at his sides. “No problem, Squirt.”
Abby stepped back, glaring at him. “Don’t call me Squirt!”
He responded with an unrestrained, full-out smile. Boyish and flirtatious, it was at odds with his military persona, making him appear younger, less intimidating.
“There’s a nest back there,” Gramps was saying, pointing to where the reptile’s rampage had begun. “That’s probably why the gator was so aggressive.”
Retrieving her shovel, Abby inspected the metal scoop, now dimpled with tooth impressions, then resumed hauling muck. She stayed close to the house and waded into the lake, following Bradley’s example. Perplexed and annoyed, she stole a peek at him as he gutted and skinned the alligator for tonight’s dinner.
Squirt? That was a nickname for a five-year-old; and coming from Bradley, it was even more irritating than Sweetie-pie, an unwelcome and not-so-subtle reminder that she was too young. Was that the rationale behind his nonresponsive hug?
Angry at being treated like a child, she thrust the shovel into the lake bed.
“Hey, Squirt,” Bradley shouted. “Could you get me a bucket of pool water and some soap?”
Abby’s rankled facial reaction drew another huge grin. This time, she was ready. “When you smile, you look like you’re sixteen.”
Surprise registered in his hazel eyes, then with an indifferent shrug, he gathered up the alligator’s remains, carted them to the lake’s edge, and discarded them beside the nest.
Dropping her shovel and kicking off her wet shoes, Abby traipsed into the screened room.
How can I get him to stop calling me Squirt?
She retrieved the vanilla-scented liquid soap
from her bathroom and an empty bucket from the garage.
The pool water felt unpleasantly chilly after three days without the roof-mounted solar heater, and Abby carried the brimming bucket gingerly to avoid splashing herself.
Bradley was squatting beside the lake, hands cupped, prompting her to dispense the soap. She watched him lather his forearms to the elbow; even his hands exuded strength.
“Okay, rinse,” he said, extending his arms.
Abby tipped the bucket and washed away the soap bubbles.
“That’ll do it,” he said, shaking the excess water from his hands. “Thanks, Squirt.”
“I asked you not to call me that.” The bucket rocked backward and, like an overstretched slingshot, whizzed forward. The remaining gallon of water struck his face with a stinging slap. Water dripped from his nose and ears. A fusion of disbelief and playful vengeance flickered over his handsome face.
With a taunting burst of laughter, Abby ditched the bucket and took off running.
He started after her then immediately reconsidered.
“Bradley?” Abby’s mother shouted from across the garden. “You have my permission to throw her into the pool.”
Unleashed, Bradley took off.
Abby continued up the hill, laughing so hard she could barely run, his footfalls closing behind her.
“If you run, you’ll just swim tired,” he shouted.
As Abby reached the driveway, Bradley’s arm ensnared her waist. Her feet left the ground, pedaling through air, and in one smooth motion, he tossed her over his shoulder like a wounded warrior.
“You’re not really gonna do it, are you?” she asked.
“Affirmative.”
“That water’s really cold.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” When Bradley reached the end of the diving board, he abruptly bent forward and sent Abby sailing backward like a crash-test dummy. Face scrunched with dread, she expected to hit the cold water, but Bradley’s left arm caught her shoulders; his right still grasped her knees.
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
A second later, she landed on her backside making a huge splash.
29
CHARLES TURNED IN A slow circle, trying to regain his bearings since leaving the turnpike. He had to be getting close. The flat land surrounding Orlando had given way to rolling hills that were taxing his energy. Thirst, hunger, and fear were engaged in a ruthless battle within his skull.
The people he had encountered the past few hours were terrifying, and Charles couldn’t decide who was most dangerous: drug addicts in withdrawal, psych patients off their meds, NRA nuts brandishing guns, convicts impersonating policemen, or parents watching their children go hungry?
In a shallow valley, he noticed sunlight glimmering off an inground swimming pool, a beacon calling to him. Charles staggered down the hill toward the gate of the condominium complex. He skimmed each building for signs of deranged, barbaric people, but saw no one.
Intelligent people are in hiding, he thought, leaving only the crazy and criminal on the streets.
He tumbled onto his knees at the pool’s edge. Charles cupped his hands and scooped the water; then suddenly repulsed, he hurled it as if it were acid. The filter had not run in days. A membrane of insect carcasses covered the surface. Sinister clumps of debris cleaved to the bottom. What unsanitary specimens had been steeping in this water? What algae and bacteria were reproducing in it?
Intellectually, Charles knew he needed water to survive, but this water was detestable. The prospect of drinking it made him nauseous.
Behind him, a metal clacking sound perforated the silence. Charles didn’t have to look. He leapt to his feet, which felt like numb unwieldy anchors, and ran for his life nearly falling twice.
A spray of pellets narrowly missed him. What kind of person shoots at someone over a mouthful of wretched water?
After a quarter mile, he doubled over. Exertion was a wrecking ball inside his head. His stomach heaved, vomiting up a symphony of retching groans, bleating gurgles, and raspy whooshes of air.
As this latest round of dry heaves subsided, Charles noticed a patch of blue in the distance—a lake, but it was too small to be Lake Apopka.
Damn it, he thought. Where am I?
Walking along a shallow drainage ditch that funneled storm runoff into the lake, Charles found a plastic water bottle. His imagination produced a slideshow of the most disgusting, unhygienic people wrapping their germ-laden mouths around it. He reached toward it and retracted his hand as though trying to grasp fire.
People only live three days without water, he told himself, and it’s been three days. Die of dehydration now? Or die of a disease contracted from that germ-infested bottle?
Like a golfer taking practice swings, he managed to pick up the bottle on the third attempt. He unscrewed the lid, filled it halfway with lake water, capped it, and shook it vigorously as if the filthy lake water might somehow neutralize the filthy germs. He dumped the contents and stepped six feet to his right to refill the bottle, mindful of not recapturing the same water.
There had to be a way to sterilize it besides boiling. Charles rubbed a hand over his face and winced. Despite the February date, the unrelenting sun had scorched the bridge of his nose. Great, he thought, skin cancer.
He trudged along for ten minutes before the realization dawned. Ultraviolet light from the sun—could that sterilize the water? After placing the full bottle in a patch of sunlight, he sheltered beneath a tree. How long would it take? He had no idea.
Once the sun had sunk below the horizon, Charles removed his silk embroidered handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit coat. He draped it across the bottle opening, a barrier between his lips and the dirt-encrusted plastic. After dozens of false starts, he felt the water hit his stomach, burning like cheap scotch.
30
BRADLEY SWALLOWED THE last mouthful of fried alligator and slumped back against the chair on the Murphys’ lanai, feeling full for the first time since the EMP. Both families had agreed to pool resources and gather here for meals because the lanai made strategic sense. Protected on three sides by the house and below grade relative to the street, the space was nearly bulletproof, its only vulnerability from Sugar Lake and the golf course beyond.
Bradley stared into the shadows, trying to banish Abby from his thoughts.
I never should’ve chased her, he thought. I should’ve ignored her.
Those mischievous blue eyes had spurred a powerful sense of attraction that scared the hell out of him. Why couldn’t she be eighteen?
A burst of consecutive pops rose above the dinner conversation.
Gunfire—and it was close, a couple miles at most.
“Bradley, go,” Gramps said. “I’ve got things here.”
He darted through the screened room and retrieved his rifle and backpack, discreetly hidden behind one of Mrs. Murphy’s hibiscus bushes. Since the horror at the elementary school, he had kept both handy. This time, he would be better prepared with an M1A, five magazines, and a nightscope, charged courtesy of Mr. Levin’s marine battery.
Bradley hustled through the wooded hillside, cutting through inky shadows and faint snippets of moonlight streaming between trees. Screams and gunshots grew louder, more frequent.
Closing within a mile, he realized the shots were mixed, a medley of rifles and shotguns at varying distances. Bradley continued toward Fern Ridge, the concentric-ringed, terraced neighborhood with the pristine yards. The memory of bicycling kids and neighbors gathered around picnic tables gave rise to a spasm of guilt. Did they get blindsided? Should he have tried to warn them?
I can’t save everybody, he thought, railing against the overwhelming sense of responsibility. I’m not even sure I can save Gramps and Ab—
He stopped himself midthought and shook his head forcefully as if to expel Abby from his mind.
Cresting the final hill, ferocious volleys of gunshots crackled, the odor of gunpowder wafted upward, and muzzle flashes bl
inked like lightning bugs on a summer night. Frantic voices and sobbing interlaced with the gunfire.
Through the nightscope, Bradley watched an unarmed man usher a woman and two children into a man-made swale cut between the home’s backyard and the hillside. The mother dropped to her knees and lunged forward, shielding a little girl with her body; the father protected a teenaged boy.
The savages from the elementary school were ravaging Fern Ridge, dragging residents from their homes, executing them. Bradley’s finger gravitated toward the trigger, then Gramps’ words rushed back. You are not law enforcement. You can’t go getting involved in civilian conflicts.
Consequences fumbled through his mind—murder charges, court-martial, life in jail—followed by a barrage of media headlines: Marine Corps Murderer, Sniper Killing Spree, Bloodthirsty Psycho Shoots Into Crowd.
Despite the lack of electric, he was certain the media would find some way to vilify him, even if it involved smoke signals and the Pony Express.
Was he supposed to stand by, rifle in hand, and watch innocents die?
Bradley’s teeth gnashed as if he could chew through the dilemma.
The gunfire was so plentiful, so widespread, that his shots could blend into the chaos, undetected; but an American Soldier ... on American soil ... firing on American citizens?
Flashlight beams bobbed through the house below Bradley. Gunmen were searching room by room for the family hidden in the swale. After surmising the home was vacant, the savages gathered in a single area, most likely to ransack it; then they repeated the process at the house next door.
Why aren’t they scouring backyards or the woodlands surrounding the neighborhood?
Bradley watched another family die. Women, children—the savages made no distinction; and this wasn’t some foreign country. This was his hometown; these people were his neighbors; they didn’t deserve this.
Fuck it!
Nightscope honed on the nearest savage, Bradley pulled the trigger; and before the body hit the ground, he squeezed off another round. Two down, he thought, pleased with the accuracy of the nightscope, which he had zeroed using a laser boresighter.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 6
